24: The Butters Story
by D McVetty
Summary: He went missing on June 5th, while searching for firewood. P.I. Cartman has 24 hours to find him before all leads go cold. With so much time already slipping away, its race against the ticking clock to find their missing classmate. 5th Grade
1. Cartman

_**Chapter ; **_Cartman

_**Disclaimer 1 ; **_I obviously don't own South Park, or this would be much better.

_**Disclaimer 2 ; **_I do own the words here, so please do not use them without permission.

_**Author's Note ;**_ Just a simple, silly story written for entertainment purposes only. Set in fifth grade, the boys are still boys. Each chapter will be in a separate character's view point. The chapters are going to be very short, but it is just a fun side project. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Reviews are much appreciated. The more reviews and ideas you let me know about, the more likely I am to finish a story. _*nudge nudge, wink wink*_

_**Author's Note 2 ; **_Thanks, xEmeraldIsle, for letting me know. Microsoft spell check probably shouldn't be my best friend. It often tells me things are spelled incorrectly concerning the South Park universe.

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_The following events take place between 7:00a.m. and 7:23a.m on June 6__th__......_

The call came in at seven that morning. I was sleeping with Clyde Frog, cozy under the blankets when the phone woke me up from a _particularly _good dream about Jennifer Lopez. I rolled out of bed, grabbed the phone and put it to my ear.

"Uh," is all I say. If they were calling my private line, they knew who I was.

"We need the help of a P.I," the voice says, audibly distressed.

"What's the job?" I ask, sitting up in bed, swinging my legs to the cold hardwood floor. Clyde Frog now lays in bed alone, all but forgotten in my line of work. I couldn't have any attachments to a world that could be taken away at any moment.

"Our son... he's gone missing."

"Call the police," I say gruffly.

"No! We need you! The police can't help us now!"

Considering my options, I crack my toes against the floor. Getting to my feet, slapping the alarm clock as it beeps seven-oh-five, I sigh heavily. "I'm going to need more information, mister. His name, height, age, weight, hair color, eye color. Then, I'll tell you my price."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" the voice praises, almost crying in joy.

Getting a slip of paper with Terrence and Phillip drawn on it, I sat at my desk to write down the information the father could give me. I heard the mother crying in the background, her hysterical sobs breaking my concentration. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to move to a different room. Your wife's sobbing is breaking my concentration," I say bluntly.

The noise soon fades. "Our son is about three feet tall, he's going to be in sixth grade this September. He has light blue eyes, blonde hair, and he was last wearing a blue shirt. He's not very heavy..." the father trails off, apparently getting choked up or something stupid.

"His name?" I remind him.

"Leopold Stoch," he says. "His classmates call him Butters."

I pause, then smack myself in the face. "Jesus christ," I groan.

"Will you still do it?"

"It's going to be a hundred dollars," I say, sighing. "An _hour_."

After a long pause, the Mr. Stoch swallowed hard. "Done."

"Good, good. This is a recorded conversation, and that was your verbal agreement. If you don't pay up, I'll take you to court. Do you understand?" I ask, grabbing another sheet of paper.

"I understand."

"Good. Now, Mr. Stoch, I need some more information on your son. Where was he last seen, what was he doing, and what time did you realize he was gone?" I hold the pen at the ready, sketching down any important detail.

"He was last seen at the campsite on North Park Scenic Road, and he was gathering fire wood for our campfire."

"Were there smores?" I interrupt.

"W-what?"

"Sir, this isn't a game, I need you to answer the question. Were. There. Smores," I repeat.

Confused, the father stuttered a moment. "Well... there were going to be... yes, we had smores ingredients."

"Okay. Keep going."

"We noticed he was missing - I mean, we noticed he hadn't come back when it was getting dark. We looked for him until the sun disappeared, but we couldn't find him. We called the cops, and they couldn't find him either. Now we're turning to you."

"You've done a good job, sir," I say, circling _smores_ on the sheet of paper. "I'll call you when I get any information. Meet me at the campsite in two hours."

Without giving him time to respond, I hang up the phone. Setting the pen down, I stand up from the desk, stretching my aching, old bones. "Well, Clyde Frog, I have important business today. I'll be home when I can.

"_Call me, Cartman._

"No, I cant do that, Clyde Frog! We agreed this wouldn't be a relationship. I'll come home when I do!

"_You'll go to the strip club again!_

"That was once, Clyde Frog, and it was for a job," I say angrily, tossing the blanket over my irritating other half and dismissing the one-sided conversation. Dressing myself, I hurry down the stairs, grabbing a plate of waffles off the counter. "Bye mom, got important things to do," I say quickly, rushing into the livingroom.

"Young man!"

She never uses that tone. "Wh_aat_, mom?" I stress.

"Don't bring that plate outside again. Last time, mommy had to buy a new plate. You stay in here and eat those waffles, pookiekins."

"Awwww but _maaawwwm_, I have really important _business_ to take care of today," I whine, stomping my foot.

"Well... alright, hon. But bring the plate back this time."

"Ok_ay_!"

I rush out the door, already on my way to a house I knew could help. He lived across town, which gave me enough time to eat my waffles. It also gave me enough time to work up a sweat as I came around the final corner, panting from the stress, long ago abandoning the plate by the side of the road.

The pale house looming above me had an air of religion about it, though from one tiny window upstairs, the anti-christ pulsed healthily. I walk to the front door, pounding on it with my fist. There is a rustling of feet behind the door, then it opens. The boy standing before me has mousey, dirty brown hair, dark mysterious eyes, and a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth.

"Wat ees it, fatass?" he asks, his accent heavily French, smoke curling from his lips.

"I have a job for you," I say simply, knowing the bait will catch his attention, however fractionally.

"Like _what?_" he says dully as he blows smoke in my face.

Coughing, I wave it away. "Butters is missing, and his parents hired me to find them. I'm hiring _you_ to follow clues."

"Wat makes you tzhink I'll work for you?"

"Twenty dollars an hour."

"Hm." He pauses for a while. Smoke chugs out his mouth like a diesel engine. Behind his shadowed eyes, I cant tell if he's thinking about my offer or wondering where to hit me first. The dark orbs focus on me suddenly, and he says gruffly, "Deal."

"Good, lets go."


	2. Christophe

_**Chapter ; **_Christophe "Ze Mole"

_**Disclaimer 1 ; **_I don't own South Park. If I did, Ze Mole would be a main character.

_**Disclaimer 2 ; **_I own the crud in this chapter, so please don't steal it.

_**Author's Note ;**_ I am _so_ intensely sorry for the overload of Mole/Christophe in all my stories. I'm sure plenty of people are getting sick of it. There's a story in the makes without him in it - believe it or not - so no fears! Until then, here is a Christophe POV story... without fluff. Next chapter preview : _Butters!_

_**R**__eviews are encouraged and appreciated._

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_The following events take place between 9:00a.m. and 9:52a.m. on June 6__th__......_

We arrive on the scene five minutes before the Stotch family. By then, a small mountain of cigarette butts have made their home at the base of my combat boots, smouldering in their unfinished agony. I wasn't the type to finish a whole cigarette. I found they became tasteless and bland after the midway point, so I tossed them. None of the other kids in South Park smoked like I did, so I couldn't really hand them off to someone else. It was my job to snuff out their pathetic, tobacco filled, cylindrical lives. So I did, but only after enjoying half a pack of smokes, standing in the middle of a campsite clearing, wind rustling through my thick brown hair.

Cartman had already pulled me around town, bringing me to Butters' favorite places, finding bits of evidence and gathering intelligence on the area surrounding the campsite. Being paid by the hour, I simply followed him in a wake of smoke, inputting my professional opinion when needed, puffing silently on a cigarette when not. The entire adventure had taken us little over an hour and a half, walking out to this desolate location included. Despite himself, Cartman could be dedicated when he needed to be. I wondered, distinctly, how much he was making with this entirely-too-simple of a job. It didn't involve death, so I didn't quite care, one way or another, as long as I was paid at the end.

A van pulled up to the site, and Mr. And Mrs. Stotch got out, pale from worry. Rolling the cigarette over my tongue, I tuck it into the corner of my lip as I stomp out the smoking butts beneath the sole of my combat boot. Stepping forward, I swing my shovel down from my shoulder, using it to lean on as the parents come closer. I say nothing as Cartman distracts them with meaningless questions about smores.

Then they're looking expectantly at me, their eyes aglow with rekindled hope and yearning. Twirling the shovel beneath my hands, digging a rut into the earth, I look to Cartman, then realize what they're waiting for. "Ze Mole," I answer, waving my hand with a lazy flourish.

"P.I Cartman says you can find our son," the father says pleadingly, as the mother's eyes dropped fat, wet tears down her skinny face.

"Oui," I answer, shrugging. "Eets simple."

"Oh, thank you so much," he says, his gratitude thick in the air.

_Disgusting._

"Now, I'm going to find clues at the campsite," Cartman announces, catching attention once more. "Mole will go into the surrounding brush and look for signs of your son."

Sighing deeply, I shoulder my shovel once more, spitting out the tail end of the cigarette and stepping on it as I pass. "Zen I will be back," I say gruffly, pushing past Cartman. "If I find anytzhing, I'll make a sound like a dying giraffe." A cynical grin spreads across my lips.

Cartman disregards my comment, opting instead to start his inspection for smores. If he ever thought of things different from food, I didn't know about it. I doubted if anyone knew about it.

Swinging the shovel down, I hacked into the first layer of underbrush, making my way into the wooded area surrounding the campsite. Eyes aimed at the ground, I fumbled for my pack, slipping a slender stick between my pressed lips. Lighting it with a match, I shook it out and took a long drag. It wasn't particularly hard to find the trail of clumsy Butters. Broken branches, a trampled path between the trees, and broken branches led me on a winding path through the surrounding forest. Tracking the boy proved easier than tracking a wounded Soviet through the Siberian Tundra.

Birds screeched from the canopy, their wings rustling as they took flight to escaped my presence. A squirrel, suddenly alerted to my trudging, took it upon himself to follow me through the branches, chattering angrily as he shook branches down on my head. I could only take so much of the abuse. Everyone had a breaking point - mine just seemed to involve squirrels. Stopping suddenly beneath a thick oak tree, I cocked the shovel back, swinging it with all my might into the base of the tree.

"Get ze fuck away," I warn the squirrel, who chatters back angrier than before. I wonder what would happen if he attacked me, but I choose to instead blow smoke up at the creature. "_Beetch_." Perhaps not the most mature comeback. Especially to a squirrel.

I resume my tracking, though the squirrel still follows. As I stop to inspect a broken branch, the squirrel tosses a nut at me, hitting the ground by my feet. Scooping it up, I straighten, look for the source of the constant _'chit-chit-chit'_, pull back, aim, and _fire._ I hear a surprised squeak as the squirrel careens over the branch, landing on the ground several feet below, completely dazed.

"Fucking _beetch_," I mutter darkly, content that I fought the squirrel and won. By the time I turned back to my trail, the squirrel had scampered away, probably warning the woodland creatures of my violent attack. Or maybe he was going back to his home to never come out again, having been bested by The Mole.

Gripping the shovel tightly, I returned it to the usual position on my back. I still had a blonde-haired idiot to find. Following the trail to a small stream, I noticed a second set of tracks in the spongy ground lining the water bank. Large, almost humanlike, they shadow the small footprints of Butters. A pile of sticks lay discarded to the side, almost appearing to be dropped perfectly in place. I hunker down, inspecting the prints carefully. Though it was always a possibility that it could be _bigfoot_ in South Park, I identified the prints as belonging to a regular Grizzly bear.

It appeared that the bear stumbled upon Butters at the stream, and the two had a scuffle. The chances of Butters' survival rate simply plummeted through the ground at that point, leaving me to wonder what point it was to find his mangled, half eaten body among the trails meandering through the forest. Pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, expelling the smoke forcefully from my lungs as it rushed out.

I was being paid to find dead kids now.

"_Sheet._"


	3. Butters

_**Chapter ; **_Leopold Butters Stotch

_**Disclaimer 1 ; **_I don't own South Park.

_**Disclaimer 2 ; **_I own the crud in this chapter, so please don't steal it.

_**Author's Note ;**_ Another short update. More to come next week. Enjoy.

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_The following events take place between 7:00p.m. and 7:16p.m. on June 5__th__....._

I hate camping.

Don't get me wrong, I love nature as much as any folk, but camping with my parents was always such a chore. They ask me to find firewood and smores sticks and get the bug spray and all those other things that adults cant do for themselves. They never let me do what I want to do. Do I get to climb trees? No. Do I get to play in the water? No. I get to find sticks and go to sleep.

I'd rather be at home playing Hello Kitty.

As I walk through the darkening woods, I realize I still only have an armful of twigs to bring back for the fire. I'm sure they'll burn for ten minutes before I'm sent out for more. I couldn't possibly go back now, or they'd yell at me and I really hate being yelled at. So instead, I walk deeper into the woods.

"Golly, its sure dark in here," I observe, peering through the looming darkness. Shadows dance all over the place, and I'm almost jumping out of my skin at any moment. I'm the kid that has to sleep with a night light, the covers tucked tightly around me, a flashlight next to my pillow in case the thing under the bed decides to come out for the first time in my life.

As I venture deeper into the woods, I forget all about the sticks I was sent to fetch and instead start thinking about the way to freedom and civilization. Shiny lights and the drone of engines really puts a person to sleep. The sounds of crickets and owls just doesn't bring the same comfort when the street lamp isn't shining in your bedroom window. It's all this thought of home that makes me stop walking suddenly, straining my ears to hear anything. The animals have stopped making noise, and I cant hear my parents if they're looking for me. I realize suddenly that my sense of direction is quite poor, and that I just may be lost.

Fishsticks.

Kicking at the leaves littering the ground, I almost walk directly into a stream. It must have been my lucky day, because a stream went through the campsite we were at. If I followed the stream, I would certainly come out next to the campsite. I learned that at scouts one year. It was one of the few things I retained for future reference. All the other things I just cant seem to remember.

As I stepped closer to the stream, my feet began to sink into the squishy, mucky ground. "Ewwey," I say, taking my foot back out to see my black shoes covered in mud. "Awwww, now I'm going to get in trouble."

"_Wrrrrrrr._"

The last thing I expected to hear in response was a low growl. Hopping on one leg, I turned around to see a large shape behind me. Yelping in fear, I dropped the sticks, falling on my rear in a combination os surprise and lack of balance. "Holy cow!"

"_Wrrrrarrr_."

"No! No, don't eat me, Mr. Bear! I-I'm sure I don't taste good!"


	4. Stan

_**Chapter ; **_Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski

_**Disclaimer 1 ; **_I don't own South Park.

_**Disclaimer 2 ; **_I own the crud in this chapter, so please don't steal it.

_**Author's Note ;**_ It may not seem like it, but Stan and Kyle have something to do with the story. I'm enjoying writing this, despite how short it is, and I do hope you're enjoying reading it. Thanks for all your comments, they mean a lot to me.

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_The following takes place between 9:16a.m and 9:25a.m on June 6__th__........._

My fingers flew across the guitar, hitting the right keys at the right time. Red... red... blue... yellow red red green... The colors slid up the screen in a steady rythem, the song pounding out across my new speakers. They were a gift from my mother for my eleventh birthday. Kyle hadn't gone home in three days, and had hardly moved from the spot in front of the multi-colored drum set. The sticks slammed into the drums, his foot tapped to the beat, and we were making the best music in history, rocking with the Rolling Stones.

Then the phone rang.

Pausing the game, I reached over from the edge of the bed, picking it up and hitching it against my ear as I unpaused the game. Kyle cried out in protest, though I ignored it as he missed several notes and I picked up as naturally as ever. The volume on mute, I cleared my throat. "Marsh house. Stan speaking."

"Aye, Stan, we have a problem."

I stiffen at the voice, but answer anyway. "What?"

"Its Butters, Stan, he's missing."

"Cartman, why the hell do you even care?" I ask in irritation. Kyle rolls his eyes as he realizes who I'm speaking to.

""Aye, butthole, he's my friend!"

"Dude, last week you tied him in a burlap sack and threw oranges at him. Last _month _you told him the jug in the fridge was _lemonaid_ when it was really alcohol. He got drunk, and you took naked pictures of him and your cat. Don't even get me started on what you did on the last day of -"

"Okay, okay," Cartman says in irritation, obviously imprinted on some other important discussion. "Stan, think about it. Little Butters - _our_ little Butters - is outside, alone, in the woods with no survival skills and nothing to eat. Hungry and scared."

Kyle had leaned in to our conversation, listening to Cartman's nasally voice with an increasing look of anger. After listening in on the last bit, he sighed. "God _damnit,_ Cartman."

"Is that Kyle?"

I pause the game and cup my hand over the receiver, motioning for Kyle to be quiet. "No," I answer quickly."Why would Kyle be here?"

Cartman seemed speechless, then burst out, "Because, r-tard, he's your best friend. Jesus Christ."

"Whatever, Cartman. What do you want me to do?" I ask, setting the guitar aside and getting up to look out my window. I can never put it past Eric Cartman, what he'd do if he had the chance. Most of us were scared shitless of him. He fed a kid his parents, he gave Kyle AIDS, he kept Butters in a bomb shelter to get to a restaurant - the list went on a mile long.

"I want you to sneak into his room and find clues," Cartman says confidently.

Stan scoffed. "No way, dude. I'm not going anywhere. Find someone else to do it."

"Fine, I will!"

"Good."

"Yeah, great."

"Awesome."

"Fucking fantastic."

"Bloody wonderful."

"Splendid."

"No," I say, clicking the phone down on the receiver. "What a homo."

Kyle was going through songs on Rock Band. Looking sideways at me, he arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"He wants us to sneak into Butters' room."

"Oh, screw that," he said, picking a song and pushing the guitar towards me. "Lets play. Come on. No telling when my mom'll want me home."


End file.
